TROUBLE DRAWS NEAR.
It may easily be believed that Alec Lindsay passed a sleepless night
after his visitor left him. In the early morning he sent for a cab, and
drove through a choking fog to Theobald’s Road.
An old woman, sweeping out the rooms and lighting the fires, was the
only person in the office. Alec ran to his own room, and with feverish
haste began opening drawers, and tossing about their contents, turning
over bundles of old drafts, and peering behind the rows of books on the
bookshelves. The draft he sought for was nowhere to be found. Then he
began a more systematic search, going carefully over the whole ground
again. Of course it was all in vain.
By this time the clerks had begun to arrive. He went downstairs,
searched the desk which had formerly been occupied by MacGowan, and
closely questioned all the clerks, only to learn that none of them had
seen the paper he was seeking.
Once more he went up to his own room, and threw himself into his chair,
completely exhausted. A fit of coughing seized him, and when that
passed away, he began to cross-examine his memory for the fiftieth
time. Where had he put the draft? He believed he had followed the
usual course, and placed it with the other drafts of wills, which, as
it happened, were kept in this room. What could have become of it? It
was possible that MacGowan had inadvertently carried it downstairs
with him, and that it had been left there. Or it was possible that it
had fallen from the edge of his table into the waste-paper basket. He
questioned the office-keeper. She did not remember seeing any paper
such as he described in the waste-paper basket. It might have been
there; she could not say after so many weeks. If it was in the basket,
no doubt she had used it to light the fires with. She could not, in
fact, say anything about it.’
He was still speaking to the woman, when he received a message to the
effect that Mr. Hatchett, who had just arrived, wished to see him.
Alec went at once to his employer’s room. He was the first to speak.
‘Will you be kind enough, sir, to show me my uncle’s will?’
‘Certainly,’ said the lawyer, after a short pause.
He unlocked the safe, and produced the will. With trembling hands Alec
Lindsay opened it. There were the signatures, one of them slightly
blotted. He remembered them well. And in another moment his eyes were
riveted on the fatal words, ‘the sum of five thousand pounds.’ Again he
scrutinized the signatures. Yes; they were undoubtedly genuine. This
was the paper his uncle had signed.
Alec folded up the document, and gave it back to Mr. Hatchett.
‘I have made a terrible blunder, sir,’ he said, in a choking voice.
Then, steadying himself, he went on: ‘That bequest to the Free Church
of Scotland should have been five _hundred_ thousand pounds. I cannot
understand how it happened.’
‘You examined the will with the draft, did you not?’ asked the lawyer.
‘I did. The fault is mine. But where is the draft, Mr. Hatchett?’
‘That was just what I was going to ask you, Mr. Lindsay,’ said the
solicitor, with a faint but peculiar smile.
‘I have not got it.’
‘And I have never seen it. Where did you put it?’
‘With the other drafts, I imagine. But I can’t swear to that. It may
have dropped off my table into the waste-paper basket.’
‘Yes,’ said the solicitor, in a doubtful tone.
‘Sir, you don’t suppose that I made away with it?’ cried Alec hotly.
‘No---- Oh dear me, no! But it is very unfortunate.’
This was exactly what the lawyer did believe, however. He might have
thought it possible that the omission of the word ‘hundred’ had been a
blunder--but for the disappearance of the draft.
Neither spoke for a few moments. Mr. Hatchett thought it better,
considering that his clerk might be charged with a criminal offence,
to ask him no more questions, but leave him to frame his defence as
he thought best. He believed the young man had yielded to sudden
temptation, and had repented of it after destroying the tell-tale draft.
‘You are not looking at all well, Mr. Lindsay,’ he said, in a not
unkindly tone. ‘Indeed, you ought not to be out at all on such a day as
this. Let me advise you to go home, and try to dismiss the subject from
your mind.’
Alec followed the former part of his advice; to follow the latter part
of it was impossible. The subject haunted him. To be alone with it
was unendurable; he must take counsel with someone; and his thoughts
naturally turned to Hubert Blake.
In the afternoon he went to Blake’s studio, but it was empty. So Alec
told the cabman to drive to Highgate.
It was nearly dark when he arrived there, and afternoon tea was laid
in the drawing-room. Blake was there, and Sophy Meredith, and an
elderly lady whom Alec did not know. This was a Miss Elmwood, who had
been installed as Sophy’s companion.
The atmosphere of peace, of comfort, of freedom from everything like
care or anxiety, was inexpressibly soothing to Alec. His friends
welcomed him warmly, though Sophy gently reproached him, and Blake
roundly told him he was a fool, for venturing out of doors when he was
so ill.
‘I have something to say to you, Blake,’ he said, as soon as he could
get an opportunity of speaking aside to his friend. ‘I have got into a
most horrible mess, and I want your advice.’
Blake’s face became serious in a moment.
‘You know I am entirely at your service, Alec. If I had known you were
so ill, I would have been with you. I can’t ask you to come upstairs,
for there is no fire there, and the one in the library is very low.
But in a minute or two Miss Elmwood will go to sit with my uncle; she
always does so at this hour; and I will tell Miss Meredith that we want
to be left alone.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind her hearing what I have to say,’ said Alec; ‘I would
rather she did. The whole world will know soon enough, I fancy,’ he
added bitterly.
In a few minutes the three were left alone, and Alec told his story.
‘So you see the chances are that I shall be accused of a gigantic
fraud, and find myself in the dock before long,’ he said grimly in
conclusion.
‘Oh, never!’ exclaimed Sophy. ‘No one who knows you, no one who had
even seen you, would think you capable of such a thing!’
Alec smiled.
‘The world is not so good-natured as you are, Miss Meredith.’
Blake did not speak. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees and
his head between his bands, studying the pattern of the carpet.
‘Had your cousin Semple anything to do with the preparation of the
will?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Nothing whatever,’ said Alec. ‘He did not even know what its contents
were, and insisted upon being in the room to hear it read. I can’t help
thinking that if I really read out “five hundred thousand pounds,” as I
thought I did, he would have made a row, instead of going quietly away.’
‘But the minister was there too. He would surely have said something if
you had read “five thousand,”’ remarked Sophy.
‘One of them is lying,’ said Blake decisively; ‘and, of the two, I’m
afraid it is more likely to be Semple.’
‘Beattie--that is the managing clerk at the office--came up last night
and told me all about it,’ said Alec. ‘He strongly advised me to say
nothing to anyone in the meantime--that is, anyone who might appear
against me.’
‘That was sound advice,’ said Blake. ‘The only thing that occurs to me
to do is to advertise for the man who wrote out the will. He is sure to
answer the advertisement. I will see that this is done to-morrow. And I
will look you up in the morning, and be ready with another surety, if
necessary--you understand.’
‘Thank you, Blake. I never thought of that,’ said Alec, as he rose to
go.
‘You must stay here to-night,’ said Sophy impulsively; ‘you must not
think of going out in this fog.’
‘Do,’ said Blake. ‘I’ll send a message to your landlady.’
But Alec would not stop. He would be more comfortable at home, he said.
They all three went into the hall together.
‘Alec, old fellow,’ said Blake, putting his hand on the young man’s
shoulder, ‘I’m afraid there’s a hard trial in store for you. You will
meet it like a man. Don’t get excited and lose your head, and don’t
allow yourself to be too much cast down. Hope for the best. Men have
had to face worse things, and have lived through them.’
Alec grasped his friend’s hand in silence. Sophy took his left hand
between her own.
‘You will be brave, and keep up your courage, I know,’ she said, as her
eyes moistened; ‘and we will hope and pray continually that all may yet
be well.’
‘Oh, all right,’ cried Alec, in his old cheery voice. ‘As Blake says,
men have had such things to bear and worse; why not I? Good-night.’
The touch of sympathy, the evident belief of his friends in his
integrity, the cheering words, had made him a new creature.
But there was one house Alec wished to visit before he sought his
own solitary abode. After a long drive he found himself at Claremont
Gardens. He wished to see Semple, and learn from his own lips whether
he had actually read ‘five thousand pounds’ when he read the will to
his uncle. But Semple was, unfortunately, out. Miss Lindsay was in bed
with a cold, and Laura received Alec alone.
‘I suppose you have heard about this terrible blunder I have
committed,’ he said, as he took his seat.
‘Yes, I was in the dining-room when Mr. Hatchett read the will. Dr.
Mackenzie seemed to be in a great passion.’
‘I am utterly unable to understand how it occurred,’ said Alec; ‘I want
to see Semple, and ask him a question or two.’
Semple, however, did not come in; and after talking in a desultory way
with Laura for some little time, Alec rose to go.
‘By the way,’ he exclaimed suddenly, ‘_you_ read the will before it was
signed; at least, you peeped into it, you remember. Was it not five
_hundred_ thousand----?’
‘Oh, Alec!’ exclaimed Laura, clasping her hands upon her breast; ‘don’t
remind me of that! You _said_ you would never mention it!’
‘I never have mentioned it to a third person, and I never will,’ said
Alec. ‘But I need not ask you how the will read. I have seen it myself.’
‘I did not read it--not that part of it, at least,’ exclaimed Laura,
in some confusion. ‘I was only anxious to see what I should have for
myself. I had no time to read it. I had hardly time to peep into it. It
is cruel, cruel of you to remind me of such a thing!’
‘Don’t say that, Laura,’ said Alec gently. ‘Don’t cry. Indeed I did
not mean to wound you. I only thought that as you had seen the will
you might remember----But it was stupid of me to ask the question,
for there is no doubt what the will says. I think I am getting a
little bewildered with it all. Last night, when Beattie--that is Mr.
Hatchett’s managing clerk, you know--told me of what I had done, I felt
as if I had been literally bewitched. I could have sworn the will was
all right. But never mind. Good-night; and I hope you will forgive me
for so thoughtlessly causing you pain.’
So Laura, smiling through her tears, graciously gave him her hand and
forgave him; and Alec went away. As soon as the hall-door had closed
behind him, she threw herself on the sofa and wept the bitterest tears
she had ever known.
Tired out in mind and body, Alec arrived at his lodgings. On the table
lay a piece of blue paper, neatly folded in two. It was a summons
for him to appear at the Bow Street Police Court at ten o’clock on
the following morning to answer charges of altering a will, and of
attempting to obtain money by false pretences.
He hardly heard the voice of the housemaid saying, ‘The man told me to
give it to you as soon as ever you come in, sir. And please, sir,’ the
girl added confidentially, for Alec had found favour in her eyes, ‘I
think he’s not gone far away,’ and she nodded in the direction of the
street.
Alec went to the window, and, shading his eyes with his hand, looked
out into the darkness. A burly fellow in plain clothes was loitering at
the opposite corner. The house was evidently watched; and the hot blood
rushed to the young man’s cheek, as he turned away from the window.
‘Thank you, Martha. That will do,’ he said quietly.
That night Alec felt as though the prison door had already closed
behind him.